Sunday, June 13, 2010

Carbon Copy - by Cyma

My daughter wants to be like me. She watches how I walk, she watches how I talk. When I beg her to wear more than the three outfits she keeps reaching for, I must remind myself that I only wear black, black and black. No wonder she wants to wear black.

Last night, she asked for my shirt, to sleep with. This morning she is wearing it, and showing me how the sleeves nearly fit (they don’t) and how it matches her pajamas (they don’t).

My daughter acts like me: fearless, creative, brassy, and needs to be in charge of things. Oh, yea, and always wants to be right. I look at her face, and sometimes see mine. We have the same eyes, skin tone, hair color, and nearly the same body type. Another mother, but the same as me. I want to believe that her sadness, like mine, is overshadowed by a great capacity for happiness. I know she laughs more than I did at her age.

I believe that all things happen for a reason. I chose to believe that someone else birthed her so I could have her. I must say that I believe that the fit couldn’t be better. It wasn’t always this way. My first glance took my breath away. I remember holding my breath when I saw this horribly sad, confused creature. I sensed a tightness in her brain, a portent of many things to come.

I was ambivalent about it all. I didn’t take a leap of faith, I just said ‘yes,’ and nearly died afterward trying to retrace my steps and retract my words. It was all too late.

But, G-d has a plan. The plan has unfolded. Today, I reached down to take my shirt off my daughter, and catch glimpses of myself underneath. And then she laughed.